


The Frustrations of Your Sire

by wilkiecollins



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 05:45:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7496163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilkiecollins/pseuds/wilkiecollins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis discovers Philippe's impropriety with Madame La Vallière and confronts him, but unfortunately, in that moment, Philippe happens to be bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Frustrations of Your Sire

Philippe was lounging, as only Philippe knew how to lounge. He was the epitome of languor, sprawled and long limbed and very much enjoying the silence of his own company (he always liked himself far more than anyone else he ever met), until it was rudely punctured by his brother's clicking heels and the double doors of his chamber being flung open.

"You do not touch what is mine!" Louis roared, his eyes glazed with fury, skin flushed scarlet. His entire body radiated a bright, trembling rage which made Philippe smile. In these moments he found his brother quite exquisite indeed.

"Wouldn't dare," he replied simply, dropping his stocking-clad feet to the floor. Louis's incandescence grew relative to Philippe's nonchalance.

"She told me," Louis hissed, taking steps towards his brother. "Did you think she would not? You know she is a Holy woman? You know she already makes herself suffer for what she sees as sin!"

Philippe stared up at King with wide, doe-like eyes. "Oh," he said softly, his innocence as contrived and elaborate as his garments, "You mean my putting my tongue in the woman pregnant with your child. Hm." He breathed out through his nose, "Well, I'm afraid I just happened to slip, brother."

Louis's fingers twitched like he were about to strike the Duke. Philippe knew Louis was aware that his brother was trying to rile him. The pattern was as old as time itself, as ingrained into their relationship as Philippe's continued subservience and enforced inferiority. Philippe's quick mind would grow bored, cramped up in tight chateaus and lodges, and his first port of call in venting his frustrations would be teasing his brother. And Louis, without fail, the reliable fellow he was, would _always_ rise to the bait. Philippe watched with wry amusement as his brother struggled to take a calming breath. "She is mine," he said finally, firmly, with a regal air of total finality.

Philippe's face dropped. "You fuck my wife daily."

"You do not."

"Perhaps I do not wish to travel the path you have already slicked," Philippe responded sharply, eyes narrowed.

"Ah!" Louis cried, "Your pettiness remains, as ever, legendary," and with glee Philippe heard his brother's restraint drip from his voice as his pitch increased, adopting a shrill note that delighted Philippe to his core. "This isn't about your wife. This isn't about the Madame. This is you, stealing my toys, not because you want them but because I do!" he spat, "You spend fifteen thousand of the state's livres on shoes. That would placate most women."

Philippe rolled his eyes, "I am not most women."

"Philippe," Louis said, simply, desperately trying to level his voice. "Brother. Leave her be. Do not involve her in your games. This is between us."

Philippe stared thoughtfully into the distance, tapping his chin with a fine, long finger, his nails perfectly shaped, "Hm. Do you think - do you think she would _like_ to be between us?" he asked, a smirk edging its way at the corner of his mouth. Louis's face remained entirely blank, though Philippe could see the patience draining away.

"If you are going to fake desire for any woman of this court at least make it the one you're married to. Orleans needs an heir," he said blandly. And in all honesty, Philippe was admiring of his brother's new found control. A few years ago he would have got a slap two minutes into the conversation. The diplomatic training was clearly going swimmingly.

"Fake?" Philippe gasped, clutching a melodramatic hand to his melodramatic throat. "I am offended, on behalf of the Madame. She is utterly worthy of even my discerning affections. There is something about her relentless masochism that I empathise with, enshrined in these walls," he said dryly. "Are we not all masochists who cling to the King's coat tails?"

Louis's eyes sparked once again. Like a petulant child he was perfectly amiable when he felt the argument was won, but his blood began its boil all over again should he feel the odds were swaying from his favour. 

"We both know you would only put your mouth near a woman to taste the man that had been there."

Philippe snorted and dragged himself to his feet, closing the distance between himself and his King. He relished the mere inch or so he had over him, even in just his stockings. There was a satisfaction in being taller than the state. 

"Is that what you think, brother?" he asked, his voice low, leaning in to Louis's bright, flushed face. "Not only do I want your throne, your money, your mistresses - now I want your _cock_ too?" Philippe closed his hand over the front of his brother's breaches in a rough, sudden grasp that made the breath leave Louis's chest in a huff. The King remained frozen, his eyes widening only minutely, a shift only Philippe could possibly identify. 

Louis had learned many a year ago that the best way to defeat Philippe's wheedling, stinging jabs was to feign apathy, adopt a blank face and a careless disposition. "Is there nothing of yours I do not wish to take?" Philippe whispered, pushing his brother further, edging him towards the brink of his loss of self control. He wanted Louis to hurt him. He wanted him to scream. He wanted his brother to throw him off of him, slam him against the wall, all fists and teeth and primal frenzy. He wanted war. Philippe's heart beat for war. The pulse between his thighs throbbed for war. The suffocating, stale, clammy silence of entrapment was wearing at his skull like a hacksaw, and the only thing to relieve the relentless frustration would be blood and rage. And Louis was his easiest target. He had spent their entire lives learning to push his brother's royal buttons. "Is the cock of the king," he began, licking his full lips, "really so sent by god that even his _brother_ can't resist the taste of it?"

"Do you amuse yourself?" Louis asked quietly, and Philippe could hear the catch in his voice as he rolled his fingers.

"Endlessly. Though I've been told I'm very good at amusing others," he grinned, squeezing the flesh rising against his palm. Louis grabbed his wrist as a gasp slipped his mouth, his grasp sharp and painful. 

"Enough," he breathed, and Philippe thought he could take that as victory, thought in another life, in another time, that would be his brother conceding defeat, and that would be enough. But Philippe wanted more. He didn't want Louis to admit he had won. He wanted to drive Louis to distraction, to tear his mind apart as he had slowly been shredding Philippe's own psyche to rags and ruin. Louis had his slim fingers buried into the minds of every single person of the court, held their strings above them and jerked their limbs, the most powerful people in the world reduced to the King's perverse marionettes, locked in a box in the middle of nowhere. Yet in this moment it was Philippe who had his fingers on the King, and it was he who moved his strings. 

"Not even close," Philippe replied, backing his brother up against the small bureau with a clash of rolling ink bottles even as Louis's grip on his wrist sent screaming shots of pain through his tendons. Growing up fighting as boys meant Louis knew where to hurt him, where to tickle him, where to soothe him, and rejoiced in the power of being able to distribute those feelings at will. Philippe released him, and Louis loosened his hold, only for Philippe to lock against his brother, sliding a muscled thigh between his legs, bringing their bodies together in sharp belief. 

"You said it yourself," Philippe whispered, rocking against him, seeing the pulse of the tendon in Louis's jaw as he desperately tried to restrain himself, feeling the tension rippling throughout his body as every Holy fibre of the King's Holy being tried to stop itself from punching his brother's mocking face. "That I would only lick her to taste you." He grinned, a grin so vicious that in that moment he could have been the Devil himself, "I could even tell you had already fucked her."

Philippe saw a flash of white as every ounce of restraint in Louis broke, every thread torn asunder, the force of his will collapsing sounding out like a canon shot as Louis tackled his brother to the floor, and Philippe felt his head hit the ground hard. He felt his brothers hands around his throat and even as his neck was wrung delighted, victorious laughter burbled from Philippe's mouth.

"This is far more fun than seducing your women," he croaked, barely audible, and Louis bit off a choked sound of incredulity and made sure to kick Philippe on his way up, clambering clumsily off of his body, breathing hard. He ran his fingers through his dark hair, pacing the room as Philippe remained prone, an occasional laugh bursting forth from his lips. The silence was filled with them trying to catch their breath, from the vague amusement and humiliation attached to grown men suddenly regressed into wrestling boys, and Philippe watched his brother pace.

"Feel better?" he asked, and Louis turned on him with a glare that built empires. 

"In the future," he replied, "Find another way to aid the frustrations of your sire."

Philippe laughed, flopping back on the ground with his arms spread out beside him. "I believe I did offer an alternative."

Louis kicked him once more for good measure on the way out.


End file.
